


Rewrite the Stars

by Elvendork



Series: Within These Walls [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: 'We can’t change the stars, dear.’‘Can’t change the - I helped bloody well make the stars, of course we can change them!’





	Rewrite the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



> [This](https://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/185929966608/i-was-thinking-about-the-bandstand-scene-for-fic) happened. And then this fic happened. More might happen at some point.
> 
> Where it sits in terms of timeline and book vs. TV is up to you.

‘’Love you, angel,’ Crowley mumbles. He is very, very drunk.

Aziraphale coughs, chokes, and thumps his chest as he scrambles to sit up straight.

‘ _ What _ ?’

‘You heard me.’ Crowley doesn’t look up. He glares into his wine, tipping the glass speculatively and stubbornly avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. ‘Know  _ you _ don’t care. But. Thought you should know. I do. Shouldn’t. But I do.’

Aziraphale opens his mouth and closes it again. He looks lost and hurt, which is so much worse than the anger that Crowley had expected (as far Crowley had expected anything; he is not exactly thinking straight at this point).

‘Of  _ course, _ I…’ Aziraphale begins wretchedly. ‘I mean - but Crowley, we can’t just… we can’t change the stars, dear.’

‘Can’t  _ change _ the - I helped bloody well  _ make _ the stars, of course we can change them!’ Crowley lurches back from the table, shoving his sunglasses back up his nose and scowling.

‘I didn’t mean literally,’ Aziraphale grumbles miserably. ‘You know what I meant.’

‘I know what you meant,’ Crowley snaps. ‘I know what  _ I _ meant too.’ He is too drunk for this. Or too sober. He isn’t sure. Probably neither of them will remember this tomorrow anyway (as long as they don’t choose to), which is for the best.

‘Oh, don’t look so unhappy, dear. You know there’s nothing I can do. Please don’t –’

‘Stop,’ Crowley interrupts. ‘Just stop.’ He stands up, swaying and stumbling. He looks down at the glass still in his right hand and tries to take a gulp before he realises it is already empty. ‘I’m leave – I’m leaving,’ he hiccups, scowls, and considers refilling his glass briefly. The corners of his mouth are turned down dramatically; it is an expression Aziraphale cannot stand to see, but even it is preferable to what happens next. Crowley turns away.

‘I’m going home,’ he says, voice wobbling dangerously. ‘Call me when you… Call me.’

He gets halfway to the door, as loose-limbed and serpentine in his movements as ever despite his obvious lingering inebriation, before he stops. He doesn’t look back. He can’t look back.

‘No, you know what? Don’t call me. Don’t.’

‘Crowley, please…’ Aziraphale stands up and has to grab the table to remain that way. Two bottles topple to the floor, both thankfully already empty.

‘Don’t want to… Just don’t, angel. Never happened. This conserve – constraina – talk. This talk never happened.’

‘Don’t go –’

‘Bye, angel.’

**Author's Note:**

> _What if we rewrite the stars?  
>  Say you were made to be mine  
> Nothing could keep us apart  
> You'd be the one I was meant to find_


End file.
